by Amy Cross
“Huh,” she adds after a moment. “There's a typo in the first paragraph.”
She can still see out of the corner of her eye that he's watching her, but he hasn't said anything yet so she decides to read on. She flicks to another page and reads another chunk of lines.
“And there's another typo,” she says. “Must have been properly edited, huh? A really -”
Before she can finish, there's the sound of wooden chair-legs scraped against the floor and she half-turns, just enough to see that he's getting to his feet. She waits, frozen in place as he slowly makes his way around to the other side of the counter.
At least that's progress, she tells herself. Of sorts.
“I always wonder how books get to be published with typos,” she continues, still looking down at the book. “I guess nobody cares about that sort of thing anymore.”
He stops on the other side of the counter.
She still refuses to look at him, preferring to stare down at the book.
“It's very sloppy,” she adds. “Unnecessary, too.”
“On the contrary,” he says suddenly, his voice sounding a little dry, as if he hasn't spoken for quite some time, “I imagine the book was edited to within an inch of its life.”
“Then -”
“There are things that don't want to be written about, Ms. Marker,” he continues, interrupting her. “Forces, if you will, that would prefer to pass unnoticed. So they push back. May I?”
He reaches for the book.
She hesitates, before handing it to him and then looking at his face as he peers down and starts flicking through the pages.
“I can call you Sam, can't I?” he asks.
She doesn't answer.
“If a book has no typos,” he continues, “you can be sure that it's safe. It contains nothing that threatens the darker forces. But if it does have typos, then you know it got too close for them to be comfortable. Too close to the truth about real horrors. The dark forces pushed back and, although limited in their power when it comes to such things, they were able to disrupt the book a little. Enough to move a few words around, change a few spellings.” He turns to another page. “Typos in these books are a sign that the author angered those dark spirits. That the author got too close to the truth, forcing them to try to obfuscate and confuse. In which case, I always consider typos to be a very good sign indeed.”
Sam waits for him to finish, but now he's simply looking through the pages.
“That,” she says finally, “sounds like a load of crap.”
“You're lecturing me on how these things work?” he asks, glancing at her and raising a skeptical eyebrow. “That's some real fine human-splaining right there, Sam.”
“You wanted something?” she asks, although she's already frustrated that she yielded. Part of her wishes she'd just left without saying a word.
“How are you doing, Sam?” he replies, setting the book back down on the counter. “Still got that knife embedded in your skull, I see.”
“You wanted something?” she asks again.
“It's a nice night,” he continues. “Not too warm, not too cool, just moderate. Perfect for sitting outside, maybe. Would you like to join me for a drink and a natter? Some gossip, perhaps. I do so like some juicy gossip.”
Sighing, she turns and walks back across the room and pushes the door open. He's obviously not in the mood to be honest, so she figures she might as well get back to the cemetery. She'd assumed the trip would be a waste of time and she'd been proven right, but at least now she can leave with some of her -
“I'm dying,” he says suddenly.
She freezes.
It's a trick.
It has to be.
“It's true,” he continues, and there's something about his voice that makes her think maybe, just maybe, he's actually a little scared. Which, in itself, is probably just another trick. “I've known for a long time, but the nights are getting longer and time is running out. That's why I couldn't just sit here and wait for you to pop over. I had to force the issue. I wouldn't say that I'm scared, but I'm certainly... annoyed. Irritated. Peeved.”
Slowly, she turns to him.
“This,” he adds, “is where you're supposed to break down sobbing. Maybe you could wail about how unfair it all is.”
“You're dying?”
He nods.
“You're dying?”
“What's wrong?” he asks with the faintest of smiles. “Can't you bear to imagine the world without me? I know the sentiment.”
She pauses, trying to pick apart every word he's said to her since she arrived a few minutes earlier, looking for some kind of hidden meaning. Searching for the latest trick he's trying to pull, because it is a trick.
It has to be a trick.
“Forgive my ignorance,” she adds finally, “but it never occurred to me that the Devil could die. Not really, anyway.”
“Death is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence,” he replies. “Real death, I mean. Obviously I've had my fair share of false alarms, theatrical flourishes and sulks, but actual death, the end of life, is something that must come to all creatures eventually.” He pauses. “Still, I was hoping I'd have a little more time. I assumed that at the very least I'd outlive humanity. Oh, I don't know, I thought maybe one day I'd be all alone on this lump of rock, surrounded by ash and bone. To tell you the truth, I was quite looking forward to all that.”
“What are you dying of?” she asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah,” she tells him, “it does.”
“What if I said I was dying of a broken heart?” he replies. “Honestly, Sam, I really thought you'd have come to see me by now. I've been spending my days making cupcakes, without much success. It's crazy, really. I can make mountains rise from the ground, I can raise the dead and bury the living with a click of my fingers, but can I make a decent batch of cupcakes with perfect middles? Can I hell! Scones, on the other hand, I'm rather good at.”
“So your current body is dying,” she continues, taking a step back toward him, still with her arms folded. “That's the deal, right? You're some kind of immortal creature but you've been faffing around in this particular body for a while and now it's on its last legs.”
He shakes his head.
“So you'll go off in some other form,” she adds, not wanting to give in to his trickery. “A snake, maybe, or some kind of elemental spirit. You'll reincarnate in some manner.”
“I won't go anywhere,” he replies. “This is the end for me. Is that really so hard to believe?”
“It's impossible to believe,” she tells him. “The world can't possibly be that lucky.”
“Ouch.”
“I mean it,” she continues. “You're the Devil. You've existed since before humanity, you've been meddling in the world of humans for thousands of years. There's no way you're going to suddenly pop your clogs and conveniently vanish.”
“It's not very convenient for me,” he points out.
“I don't believe you.”
“Sit down, Sam.”
She shakes her head.
“Sam, please, I -”
“I'm not going to sit with you!” she hisses. “You're the Devil! You're the most evil creature in all of existence!”
“I think you're confused about my actual job,” he tells her. “Sit down and -”
“Sorry,” she replies, interrupting him again, “but I don't want to sit down and have a cup of tea in your goddamn cafe!”
“No-one ever comes,” he replies with a frown. “I haven't had one customer since I took over. Something seems to put people off.”
“No kidding.”
“I've tried a lot of things,” he continues, heading to far end of the counter, where a batch of scones sits in a display case. “I spent hours this afternoon trying new recipes, I thought if I could just improve my baking skills, I might get one customer to at least -” Letting out a sudden gasp, he grips his belly while steadying himself against the
case. “One customer,” he says after a moment, “just one. These are the best scones in all of existence, I guarantee you that one taste is all it'll take for you to get addicted. I'm good at scones, I just need people to give me a chance.”
“Is that what the Devil does with his time these days?” Sam asks. “He bakes scones?”
“Try one,” he continues, opening the case and slipping a scone onto a plate, before holding it out for her. “I could use a second opinion.”
She shakes her head.
“Go on,” he adds, “there's no need to be scared. It's not an apple!”
“I'm not trying your scones!” she says firmly.
“Well, then I'm insulted!” Setting the plate down, he takes the scone and bites into it, and for a moment he seems genuinely enraptured by the taste. “You're really missing out,” he says after a few seconds, wiping crumbs from his chin. “I'm not exactly renowned for my baking skills, the people who wrote the Bible skipped that part because they didn't want to make me seem like a nice guy, but -”
Gasping again, he doubles over in pain, clutching his belly before taking a series of deep breaths and tossing the scone back onto the plate. Turning, he limps back toward the table.
“I'll finish it later,” he mutters as he eases himself back into his chair.
He takes a deep breath, clearly in discomfort, and then he brushes a few more crumbs from the front of his shirt.
“So what's wrong with you?” Sam asks finally.
He stares at her, almost as if the exertion of fetching a scone was too much. For the first time, his pain seems genuine and there seems to be sweat glistening on his forehead.
“What is it?” she continues, taking a step closer. “You look pale, almost weak.”
“Thanks. You've got a knife in your head.”
She pauses for a moment, seeing the sweat glistening on his brow.
“What happens when the Devil dies?” she asks. “A giant party?”
“I don't know,” he stammers. “It's never happened before.”
“You must have some idea.”
“Not really. You'll have to forgive me, Sam, but I'm afraid I rather bought into the old idea that I'd rule forever. Over the past few centuries, however, things have rather become undone. It never occurred to me that...” He pauses, and this time there's a distant expression in his eyes, as if he's remembering something from long ago. “Sometimes one ends up trusting the wrong people,” he continues, “and assuming that one can't possibly be unseated. One gets confident. Cocky, perhaps.”
Sighing, he leans back in his chair.
“Cocky?” Sam asks, taking a step closer.
“Sit,” he stammers, gesturing toward the chair on the other side of the table. “Please.”
“I'm not going to sit with you,” she says firmly. “I just want to know what you're talking about, and why you think you're dying.”
“I don't think I'm dying,” he sneers, with a sudden hint of anger, “I know it! You've no idea how many deaths I've witnessed, Sam, how many lives I've snuffed out. I know what death looks like, in all its forms, and I know it's finally coming for me. Maybe I became complacent, maybe I was conceited and arrogant, but I truly believed I could stay one step ahead. But now the agent of my death is coming this way. In a horse-drawn carriage, I believe.”
He pauses again, before reaching his trembling right hand toward her.
“I don't want to be alone,” he tells her, his voice filled with pain. “I don't have long left, and thanks to an unfortunate series of events you seem to be the closest thing I have to a friend.”
She shakes her head. “I'm not your friend.”
“I don't know whether it'll be days,” he continues, “or weeks, but my life is ending and I don't want my final moments to be spent without company. Can't you find it in your heart, Sam, to just sit with me when the end comes?”
“You're lying,” she replies, taking a step back. “This is just another trick.”
“You have to believe me...”
“You're the Devil!” she hisses, opening the door and letting a cool evening breeze into the room. “You're not exactly renowned for telling the truth! If you seriously think that I'm just going to walk into some kind of trap, you obviously have a very low opinion of my intelligence.”
“Sam,” he continues, “there's something else I need to tell you. It's about -”
“Don't contact me again,” she tells him, “and don't kill any more residents in an attempt to get my attention. I'm sorry if you're in pain, but I have a job to do at the cemetery, and I seriously doubt you're as helpless as you seem.”
“Sam...”
“I guess this is goodbye,” she adds, before stepping outside and shutting the door. She pauses for a moment, staring at the sad, almost pathetic figure of the Devil slumped at his table, and then finally she turns and makes her way back across the dark town square. “I don't have time for this,” she mutters to herself. “I've got my own problems. I shouldn't have come here tonight.”
Chapter Three
“I'm coming, I'm coming!” Neil mutters, stumbling down the dark staircase in his Superman onesie. “Stop banging on that bloody door!”
Reaching the hallway, he reaches out and feels his way through to the bar area, where there's at least some moonlight shining through the pub's windows and main door. He stops for a moment and looks at the door, where a hunched figure stands silhouetted on the other side of the frosted glass. Checking his watch, Neil sees that it's barely 5am, and he swallows hard as he realizes there are only two types of people who'd be banging on the Bell and Thistle's door at this time in the morning.
The police.
Or a drunk.
He's honestly not quite sure which he'd prefer.
“Who is it?” he calls out cautiously, while wishing he'd bothered to buy that baseball bat he'd always pondered getting for protection. “Lads, we're closed, okay? Come back at lunchtime if you want a pint.”
He waits.
The figure remains at the door.
There's no sound of crackling radios, and Neil feels fairly sure that a police officer would have identified himself as such by now. At the same time, the figure seems very calm and static, not swaying at all, which suggests that this isn't some local drunk who's staggered back to the village after a night out in one of the nearby towns.
“Alright, you'll have to go home now,” he continues, taking a step forward and placing his hands on the bar's cold surface. “We're closed, mate. It's five in the morning, in case you hadn't noticed. I'm sure you've got a home or a park bench to be getting back to.”
He waits, but now he's starting to think he might have to call the police. After all, drunk locals he can deal with, but he always gets a little freaked-out by people who were preternaturally calm. In fact, he's starting to think that this particular early-morning visitor might be some kind of substance abuser, and those are the type who bother him the most. Drunks are usually no problem, but people drugged-out on the latest pills-du-jour can turn violent.
“Alright,” he mutters, “I suppose we'll have to do it the hard way.”
With that, he reaches over for the phone.
Just as he's about to take the handset, however, he's relieved to see the hunched figure step back from the door. The silhouette vanishes, and now there's no sign of anyone at all.
Neil waits, but he can't even hear the sound of footsteps heading away across the car-park.
“Okay,” he whispers under his breath, “that's better. Finally got the message, did you?”
He wants to just go back up to bed and get a few more hours' shut-eye, but at the same time he also wants to be absolutely certain that he's not about to hear some nutter trying to break in via the toilet window. So instead of heading back to the hallway, he makes his way around the bar and steps over to one of the windows. He considers switching the lights on, but then he figures that'll make it harder for him to see out, so instead he pulls the curtains
open and looks out toward the car-park. At first he sees only his own reflection, decked out in the Superman onesie he was given earlier in the year for his birthday, but then he sees that there's something large parked in the very middle of the car-park.
He squints.
A horse and carriage.
Someone has parked a large black carriage, complete with two horses standing calmly at the front.
“What the...”
He stares for a moment, convinced that this has to be some kind of illusion, but the carriage resolutely refuses to vanish in a puff of smoke.
“This can't be real,” he whispers. “I know there are some nutters round here, but even so...”
He pauses, and then he realizes that there's a dark, hunched figure standing in front of the carriage, seemingly staring straight at the pub. At first this gives Neil a sense of relief, since he supposes a bunch of drug addicts or burglars wouldn't show up in a horse and carriage, but deep down he's also feeling increasingly concerned. After all, even a stag party can get out of hand. Still watching the scene through the window, he can't shake the feeling that anyone who parks a carriage in another man's car-park at five in the morning must be up to no good.
Or, at the very least, must be some kind of nutter.
“Right,” he whispers, “I've had just about enough of -”
Before he can finish, a door opens on the side of the carriage, and Neil watches with a mounting sense of concern as two more tall, dark figures step down into the car-park.
“Oh great,” he says with a sigh, “there are three of 'em.”
He's certain now that he needs to go and call the police, but for a moment he watches as the two new figures start walking away from the carriage, heading in different directions across the car-park. One of them goes toward the pub's far corner, while the other moves closer and closer to Neil before finally stepping past the window. Looking up at the figure's face, Neil catches a brief glimpse of pale, moonlit features that look almost skull-like, before the figure makes its way around the corner and out of sight.
“Where do you think you're going?” Neil mutters, turning and hurrying toward the back of the pub. He bumps into a couple of chairs, but finally he reaches another window and peers out, just in time to see the figure stopping and turning to stare straight at him.